


entwining

by dledee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hair Braiding, Post 6x07, discussing trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7139516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dledee/pseuds/dledee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she feels guilty, he feels guilty, there's so much space in between them… and yet, you can never do away with the familiarity of family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	entwining

❝ Come in. ❞ The mirror in front of her is much too small for it and her hands can’t stop shaking with the memory of the message she’s written to Lord Baelish but she insists that her braids look perfect. It lets her focus on something else.

Jon has decided to come see her at her third attempt of getting it right and her third time undoing them and starting over. So maybe with anyone else she would’ve stopped fiddling, would’ve stopped playing the child upset that her hair doesn’t look right, would’ve tried to look as respectable as Sansa Stark ought to seem when she is attempting to rally the North under the Stark banner. After all, there’s the distinct feeling that she’s trying to be Robb and Robb would never spend so long in front of a mirror with shaking hands, but it’s Jon and he has seen much worse than her trying to get her braids just right.

For a moment, they don’t speak, Jon stands there trying to find the right words, focused solely in the way her fingers move about in her hair, over and under and soon enough she’s biting her lip and undoing it all over again. She’s trying to insist to herself it’s not Jon this time, it’s not that she’s keeping a secret from him, but how can she believe that?

Then he chuckles, he remembers a much younger Sansa running to her mother because her lady couldn’t seem to do her braids right. That’s when he speaks, moving forward to take the pieces of hair off her hands. ❝ Let me do that. ❞ Her protests are lost in her lips with a soft blush at the admission of defeat. And she loses herself again at how nice it feels to have someone she loves touching her hair. To her, his calloused hands are soft, the sort of softness that always exists in being able to trust someone.

Before she can get accustomed to it, he opens his mouth again and this time the words aren’t so kind, they leave her tummy turning in nervousness. ❝ I know you are worried, I know you do not think this is enough. ❞ They’re not, he knows they are at an extreme disadvantage in terms of numbers, but he’s counting on Stannis’ army having made a dent, he’s counting on having a good plan balance out the numbers. He’s trying so very hard to keep what’s happened to him far from his mind, he doesn’t have the time to sit quietly waiting for ravens, to move around from castle to castle until the North decides it needs to fight. No, he needs to fight now. ❝ But it’s the army we have to take back Winterfell. ❞

❝ No, it’s not. ❞ Her voice is so small and sure that it surprises even her, that stops Jon’s work on the second braid he has just started. For a moment, the silence hangs heavy in between as he wonders exactly what she means, as she regrets speaking. But Lord Baelish’s army should be here soon, he’ll know soon enough, it’s better if it comes from her.

Jon keeps working at the braid, lets it come to an end before speaking. ❝ What exactly do you mean? ❞ He doesn’t have to ask what she’s trying with her hair, he knows the style she’s been using for the last few weeks, he simply moves to a bigger braid with all the hair, starts on it before moving it to the front, letting her finish it off and tie whatever pretty ribbon she wants to keep it in place. The need to keep the matter she cannot avoid any longer ( and doesn’t want to ) far at bay makes her focus on the braid, the one thing she can control.

Men will never understand the power of a braid, of a pretty dress with a direwolf embroidered. It’s not their dominion.

❝ How did you get so good at this? ❞ The genuine surprise at how nice it looks after her useless attempts mingles with the uncertainty of one who knows she is not speaking the right words. ❝ You used to make me braid your dolls’ hair. Sansa. ❞ She nods. She remembers that. And she understands he’s not letting her forget the matter.

So she ties her pretty ribbon around her beautiful braid and turns back to look him in the eyes. She’s the one who dragged him into this, he doesn’t deserve that she hides from it’s consequences. ❝ Back at the Wall I met with Lord Baelish and he offered me his army. ❞ If he has questions about exactly how and why she met with Littlefinger he does not ask them, he merely looks to her and waits the rest of the explanation. ❝ I didn’t think we’d need it and I didn’t want to owe him anything. But I’m not letting either of us lose this one chance at taking Winterfell from the Boltons. ❞ And she turns back to her little mirror, decides to focus on making sure no little hair is out of it’s place. ❝ So I wrote to him saying I’ll take his army after all. ❞ And she waits for him to yell at her, to storm out… But he just stands there.

Sure he wants to scream, wants go object however he can! She was the one who told him he should get Winterfell back as Ned Stark’s son and now she’s going over his head. But neither of them is in a position to refuse men and he’s sure she has her reasons why she has not mentioned this until now, he’s sure there’s something in the way she has decided to turn away from him just now.

❝ What did he do? ❞

It’s not the answer she was waiting for and it brings some relief about, if cut short by the memories of the mint breath on her lips. ❝ A lady must keep her secrets, Jon. ❞ There’s something in the coy way in which she speaks that tells him all he needs to know, that promptly puts an end to the discussing. Jon simply nods. ❝ I trust you. ❞ Even if she seems more and more a different person from the little girl he used to know, the one who made him braid her dolls’ hair and had no heart for lies. But she never tried to kill him, she has never given him reason to mistrust her. Lady Catelyn would probably have his head if he dared to doubt Sansa… ❝ But next time please let me know before you send out any ravens, Sansa. We can’t afford any surprises right now. ❞

It’s her turn to nod, an apology getting lost in her throat before it leaves her mouth. Something in her prevents her from issuing out apologies, it’s a whole bunch of ’forgive me’ and not ’I’m sorry’. Openly regretting anything would be a show of weakness, even to the brother who’s now walking away from her tent. And tears gather in her eyes, tears she’s not sure how they got there…

Before walking out, Jon turns back to her one more time, wonders just where the little girl running around with flower crowns in her head has gone off to. Kill the girl and let the woman be born, he supposes… ❝ Let me know when he answers, you’re not meeting with him by yourself. ❞


End file.
